


to the Lord

by occasionallynotsafe



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, M/M, Non-Consensual, is it Bendy or is it Joey we may never know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-03 11:53:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14568468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/occasionallynotsafe/pseuds/occasionallynotsafe
Summary: if the Lord wants, so He shall have





	to the Lord

It is quiet, when his Lord comes to visit.

Perhaps it is night- above and below are silent as tombs, and Sammy can feel the barest touch of fatigue, tugging at the parts of him that were once more than this inky creature.

He is safe in his sanctuary, lights dim and thoughts far- he has spent hours curled over his desk, feeling out the strings of a song, and there are papers scattered about.

At first, he barely hears it- the sound of something moving; the floorboards creaking, the walls breathing. And then there is a soft, warbling growl, and Sammy’s thought is ripped right back into reality.

He sits up straight- spins around, and nearly falls off his chair in surprise, because _there_ , in the corner of the walls, is his Lord.

“My Lord-!” he cries, and scrambles off his chair- he falls to his knees, dips his head in submission, and the growl repeats itself. It echoes oddly in the room, repeats back on itself, and Sammy flickers his vision back up, a question bubbling to his mouth.

“My Lord..?”

Bendy is not quite there- he is tugged into the wall, is spread dark and heavy ink along it, and there is _hunger_ in his face.

Sammy’s guts flips- twists up in him, and for a second, he remains kneeling.

Then he remembers what he is.

“Forgive me, my Lord-” he says, and he is standing- tugging at his clothes, pulling off his overalls and throwing them to his chair. He hesitates at his mask- his chest tugs in what could have been fear, if it were not his Lord, if Sammy was not a servant. “Forgive me.”

He puts his mask on his desk- carefully and slow, because the moment it leaves his face, his vision blots out- disappears into darkness, and Sammy is blind and alone with his Lord.

He breathes in- takes a shaky step away from the desk, and guides himself to the middle of the room- without his vision he can hear the humming of his Lord’s breath; can hear the way his ribs move and expand, can hear the quiet growling in his chest.

It is not fear that grips Sammy. It cannot be.

“My Lord,” he says, and it is an invitation- a welcoming, a barring; it is an _I am ready_ , and his Lord surges upon him.

Hands find his hips; there is a hiss of air, and a mouth captures his- teeth dig at his flesh, and his Lord swallows his mouth whole and hard, and Sammy lets him, kisses back because he has to; there are claws digging at his flesh, pulling at his ink, and Sammy swallows a groan.

His Lord’s mouth leaves him; his knees are kicked out under him, and he kneels, vision dark and chest pulsing, and his Lord warbles out a laugh, hissing and touching- his hand curves into Sammy’s shoulders, digs into his ink, and Sammy does not dare move.

He is pushed down, then- legs kicked out, and his Lord kneels between his legs, and digs a claw into his shapeless crotch.

Sammy bites down the shout- his Lord is digging a slit into his body, curling a claw into him, and it _hurts_ \- burns and stings, and Sammy cannot help but writhe.

His Lord slams a hand against his hip, anchors him- the claw slides out of him, then drags in again; up and down, quick and ruthless, and Sammy makes a desperate sound in his throat, pained and tight.

Another claw slides inside of him- slides inside of what is, now, a cunt, and spreads him wide; pain is flowering into pleasure, and Sammy’s hips buck, a pant leaving his lips.

His Lord laughs again- it snaps and twist, and warbles like salvation, and the bruising grip on his hip turns to a caress.

 _Mine_ , Sammy images him saying- _mine mine mine_ , and he throws his head back and moans, spreads his legs wider, wishes his Lord would take him.

“Please-” he croaks, because that is what his Lord wants to hear. “Please, my Lord- _Bendy_ -”

His hips are slammed down- the claws are gone from his cunt, and there is a soft touch of something against it, now, and Sammy knows what it is-

His Lord is not human, and so he has no human genitalia- Sammy has seen it, before, a writhing mass of shiny tentacles, long and sinuous, and he can feel one of them, digging its way inside of him, now, and he arches his back into the pain.

His Lord rips into him- claws dig into his hips and his tentacles find their way inside of him, curves into his ink and his cunt, and Sammy warbles out a moan, pain and pleasure washing together in his mind.

For a while, there is stillness- the tentacles digs notches into his insides, spreads his cunt apart, and he is losing touch with reality, with his body, and his Lord’s claws are carving out clumps of his body, and it is what Sammy is _for_ -

He is his Lord’s servant. He is Bendy’s.

It does not _matter_ what he want.

And then his Lord lifts one hand, wet with ink and almost-blood, and snaps it around his neck- pressing into him and his cunt, tentacles swarming his insides, and he tightens an iron grip around Sammy’s throat.

He has no need for air- but he is gasping and panting, and his chest is heaving, and he chokes on the lack of air, chest seizing, back arching- his Lord laughs and fucks him as he chokes, tentacles filling every inch of his body, and Sammy clings to the thought that this is what he is meant for.

This is what his Lord _wants_ , and so this is what he shall _give_.

Pleasure and pain clings to each other, and Sammy’s existence tunnels down to this- to the feeling of dying, teethering on the edge, and the feeling of being fucked from the inside, tentacles caressing and taking and eating him up, of his Lord rocking into him, slow and lazy, and Sammy-

Sammy dies and dies and lives.

**Author's Note:**

> a lot worse than my other one, but this one was written while i was slow with tiredness, so


End file.
